


Meet Me At the Sea

by Summerlin



Series: Redemption Arc [2]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Little Less Sixteen Candles (Music Video), M/M, Members of Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco - Freeform, Rewrite, This is a complete rewrite, Vampires, fall out boy - Freeform, vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 03:35:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18241571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Summerlin/pseuds/Summerlin
Summary: What a distinction, Spencer thinks, how delicate that line is between animal and humanity. Brendon gazes at the pools of blue, waiting for him to run or make a scene, and Spencer’s hooked.





	Meet Me At the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of Paralians. I originally wrote the sequel to Redemption in 2012 under a ton of stress and distractions. Years later, I'm sure it wasn't meant to be a multi-chapter story. It feels redundant now. This will be a filler, part 2/3.

When they’d locked eyes, Brendon didn’t really know what to feel. Hunger, lust, yeah, that was what he felt on an almost daily basis. This, this was unbearable, liquid fire flooding his senses. He needs to touch, strangle, caress, just any form of contact. He wants to rip and tear and indulge, so when the movement of the crowd accelerates him toward this person, he can’t comprehend how intoxicating it is when he finally gets close enough that the scent hits him so hard he stumbles, trips on his own feet and just fucking keens. The human takes notice and interprets it as fainting because seriously, this is the most captivating person he’s ever seen. Brendon stares long and hard at him, begging him to keep him grounded yet he can’t form words. When his arms catch Brendon around the waist and hoist him back up, the mass of bodies pulsing to the electric beat of the speakers, and the war is already lost. This one is dead, not chance, no going back. He will die at Brendon’s hands, whenever Brendon decides.

The human’s arms are taut and stern, holding Brendon’s weight as he tries to gather himself and fucking focus. He came here to feed; it’s just that he never anticipated a pull this strong toward his prey. It was the electric blue eyes that Brendon couldn’t look away from. He’d never been so lost in them, like they could see everything.

“Can you stand?” he asks, voice cautious and like music to Brendon’s ears. He’s absolutely enamored. Brendon can’t speak.

“Shit, let’s get you out of here and find a medic.” he says, voice dripping with worry. Brendon clutches at his shirt sleeve, trying to keep pace and he’s rushed through the bodies he no longer desires, just the one supporting him. The frantic beating of his heart, Brendon isn’t quite sure at this point, is perhaps from the music. He smells clean and pure, free of any of the brown drugs being passed around. They’re breaking through the wall of people toward the back fence. The human sets him down on the pavement and kneels to get a good look at him, blue eyes searching and scanning. He puts a hand to Brendon’s neck, and his skin shoots sparks. He purrs violently.

“Fuck, you’re pale. Did you take anything?” he asks. Brendon bites his lip and stares him down trying to get him to just walk out of the barrier and out of sight where he can ravage him to pieces. Nothing happens.

“I’m going to find a medic who should be on hand somewhere close by. I’m Spencer. Shout if you need anything that I’m forgetting, alright?” He gets up to leave, but Brendon is so quick to grab his wrist that he fears he might’ve snapped it. He’d been so used to other vampires’ indestructability that he had forgotten how delicate humans were.

Spencer gasped at the vice grip, burning a hole into Brendon with his icy stare. Brendon tugged urging him back down to eye level. The fire was so intense now, he needed the addicting contact, feel his heartbeat slow in his ears. His fingers drag down Spencer’s shirt, ripping the fabric with his nails and Brendon leans in heatedly to lick a broad, lustful stripe up his neck, to taste the sweat is enough to send him reeling. Spencer tries to push against him, but Brendon’s so far gone that his grip is like chains to a wall with nowhere to go but oblivion.

Spencer keens and shakes violently when Brendon makes that squelching, meaty bite. Brendon sighs breathily and takes eager mouthfuls. Spencer is fighting the urge to give in and go lax because beneath the underlying pain, the heady moan he wants to let out is nearly overwhelming. Brendon groans and pulls Spencer impossibly closer, gradually biting deeper and palming Spencer’s chest to feel the heart quicken it’s frantic pace before gradually slowing to a stop.

But Spencer, Spencer has strength, remarkable will, and he shoves Brendon off of him with a growl, and that spark, that intense connection is lost. He’s never felt anything like it before. It’s addicting, and Brendon’s staring at the ground in a daze, absentmindedly licking his lips. The punctures in Spencer’s throat are hidden by his long hair, hidden by the curling layers and barely there scruff of beard he’d been successfully taming for weeks. His breaths are coming fast and heavy. He catches a glimpse of Brendon’s teeth and his own blood staining them. He’s panicking until Brendon actually looks at him, and it’s not that predatory gaze anymore, but alarm and fear.

Spencer is clutching his neck and before Brendon can make any advance to treat it, Spencer flinches away. He can’t run. His gut tells him not to. The pull to this creature is too strong. He’s too attracted to move. Brendon bites his lip again and glances around them shamefully. He realizes what he’s done and didn’t even try to stop himself. Now that Pete was gone, he didn’t have any will or real reason to. Spencer had made that break in the fog like a fucking spotlight.

Brendon bites his finger, and when Spencer tries to squirm away, Brendon glances to meet his eyes, and that same chill bolts through his limbs. “Hold still, please.” The blood pools beautifully and cauterizes the wound, knitting the skin back together to leave a very vicious bruise. Brendon licks is finger once he’s done and sits back on his heels. Brendon is sheepish and ashamed, worrying at the paper band on his wrist, sneaking glances at Spencer and waiting for him to say something.

This kid, to Spencer, is younger than he is, far from his scene to be wandering with drug-induced hipsters. Blood still stains Brendon’s lips in stark contrast to his marble skin, and the sensation that still lingers on Spencer’s throat is too real to ignore.

“Run and scream if you’d like. Forgive me, but it makes no difference.”

What a distinction, Spencer thinks, how delicate that line is between animal and humanity. Brendon gazes at the pools of blue, waiting for him to run or make a scene, and Spencer’s hooked.

* * *

 

 

With him around, Spencer realizes that one day, be it sooner than later, he’s going to die at Brendon’s hands. He can’t get away. He doesn’t want to. Not at all. Brendon is the most intriguing thing Spencer had ever seen. He can handle the mood swings. After dealing with both of his sisters going through puberty by himself, he’s developed a high tolerance for those moments when Brendon treats him like a petty object. But Brendon is loving, Spencer notes. He’s hyper-aware of his emotions, prickling like needles when Spencer is on edge. He tries his best to soothe him.

But he caught on early to how possessive Brendon can be. It’s in the way he’s watching him as Spencer sleeps, the way his nostrils flare and eyes narrow when he’ll return from a studio session with another’s scent lingering on him, how he’ll crawl into the bed and just touch. Spencer leans into the contact. It’s a drug. Brendon strokes the whisps of hair on Spencer’s beard with his fingertips, methodically, though he’s done it countless times before.

Spencer recognizes the innocence in him. Brendon, with all of his strength and ferocity, is still so, so fragile. He put pieces together, the things Brendon lets slip in conversation, and he’s taken a little pity on him. Brendon never deserved any of this, he thinks, doesn’t deserve to slowly lose his humanity.

He's curled into him now, pressed flush against Spencer’s side beneath the comforter and sheets. Spencer shivers from the cold. The heater in his apartment broke weeks ago, so with the nearly chilling temperatures and Brendon’s nonexistent body heat around at all times, Spencer tries not to mind. He’d taken to covering his windows with foil as the landlord would not stand to painting the windows black, and adjusting to Brendon’s sleeping schedule at his insistence. With all of the people Brendon has been feeding from lately, he always manages to choose the wealthiest of the pack, and Spencer’s bank account has been steadily increasing every week. He cards his fingers through Brendon's brunette locks, busying at the curtains of hair around his ears.

“Would you spend forever with me?” Brendon whispers, sounding so small and doubtful. He asks this frequently, always ending with Spencer giving his hand a thoughtful squeeze but never anything more.

Spencer is scared. The thought of dying is something he has no control over, and it terrifies him. He knows he’s such a hypocrite by being with Brendon, the walking death sentence, but that’s the one thing Spencer’s made quite clear to where he draws the line.

Forever with Brendon means dying. Disappearing, losing yourself. Spencer isn’t prepared for that.

“Someday.” Spencer says. “Someday will be forever. Just you and me.”

“When will that be though, Spencer? You’re always growing older. You’ll forget me and I’ll be alone again. I can’t go back to that, Spin. I can’t be alone.”

“You’ve never been alone.”

“You think that. Because I have been with a coven and have had companionship that I was never alone. Spencer, the one thing you don’t understand is how alone I’ve always been. “ Brendon shifts so he’s nose to nose with Spencer, feeling his steady breaths on his face. “Spin, look at me.”

He’s going to do it, Spencer thinks, he won’t stop. Spencer stares at the sheets bunched around them and moves to head toward the bathroom. He feels just as cold as he did with Brendon in his bed.

Brendon is hurt. “Spencer, please look at me.”

He doesn’t acknowledge, turning on the light and going through the cabinet for those sleep aids he’s been dying to take since Brendon’s nightmares became too much to handle. The room is bleached in the fluorescent light and Spencer is nearly blind with the change. He can't go that far with Brendon yet.. He doesn’t even have this life figured out. His heart pounds with the very thought of it. Sure, Brendon feeds from him nightly; reminding himself as he feels the bruises on his wrist, but he stops when Spencer says so, when he becomes light-headed and the world begins to turn gray. Brendon won’t stop.

Brendon won’t stop.

“Look at me!” Brendon growls, low and animal. Spencer is forced around and pressed into the sink with Brendon’s vice grip on his shoulders, spine hitting the edge painfully and he gasps. Brendon lets out a drawn out snarl, looking Spencer up and down with dilated eyes. Blood is running from his ears and nose, and Spencer swears his eyes changed color. He’s petrified with pools of milky blue, scowling at him.

“You don’t understand...what it’s like to be alone.” He shook at the voice, at the venom dripping beneath, not Brendon’s warm falsetto. “I won’t wait around for you to just decide. He's tearing himself apart over you. How can you stand to see that?” he snarls.

Spencer tries to speak, but all that he manages to get out is this pathetic whine from his throat. Brendon hisses and shakes his head violently, pressing his palm to his temple before looking at Spencer desperately. “Spin, I need you. I want you to stay with me.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me. You’re not yourself.”

Brendon takes a few heaving breaths, then holds Spencer's gaze, anchoring his hand to the back of Spencer’s neck, bracing his hold on him further. “I am in control, Spencer Smith. We want you, in every way possible.” Brendon goes in for the bite before Spencer can think of a good reply to stall until Brendon comes to.

Spencer has never screamed so hard in his life.

* * *

 

In the struggle, Spencer had fought hard against Brendon, managing to push him off twice until Brendon pounced on him with all of his weight, and sent them crashing through the doorway. Brendon’s milky stare never faltered through the entire process, from draining Spencer dry to feeding him. His body convulsed and jerked, clawing at the porcelain tiles by the tub, and when he got a hold of the shower curtain, the tension from his grip made the rod give way, and the plastic sheet came crashing down.

He went still, and slumped against the tile, limp and lifeless. By this time, yeah, Brendon had come to. After all, the task was done. Once it was finished, William left Brendon to clean up the mess.

As soon as the sun set, Spencer was up, scrambling and shoving himself into the far corner of the tub. Brendon was startled at the quick movement, more than what he was used to with Spencer. With his hair awry and hands trying to grasp the grout in the wall, Brendon tried to coax him slowly. Spencer was freaking the fuck out, and Brendon knew exactly how he felt.

There’s a flaking trail of blood drawn down his neck from his ear, matching that to the darker splotches of Brendon’s that still smear his mouth. His chest rises and falls, heaving breaths that whistle past his new teeth, but he doesn’t move from his spot. His hand falls from his hold though, sliding limply from his chest and onto the floor, palm against the porcelain.

“Shit,” he moans exasperatedly. He chokes on his breath for a moment, and Brendon knows that feeling; the realization that you don’t need it, that your heart no longer beats but lies as a lump of meat in your chest. “B-Bren...” Spencer rolls onto his stomach and his arms brace against the tub, struggling to find his bearings. His hands reach out blindly for the rim, for him, Brendon thinks.

He knows what he's done. He killed Spencer, murdered on the bathroom floor. That’s what a fraction of him wants to convince, but the louder part of him says This is what you wanted. Claim your prize. He doesn’t know how to feel anything but the heavy guilt, not for killing Spencer (because, thinking logically, Spencer still exists) but ultimately making him suffer, turning him with so much pain and cold determination that left him feeling so empty and detached.

“You’re still here.” Spencer croaks, blinking slowly with those frosty blues. Brendon doesn’t react at all, keeping his eyes glued to his hands folded in his lap. Blood stains his chin, trailing to his shirt collar in a bib of carnage.

“Yes. I suppose we’re equals now. Human laws do not apply to you anymore.” Brendon mumbles. He looks up at Spencer, unblinkingly with careful browns. Spencer is struggling to understand.

“You… did you—did you turn me?”

Brendon swallows and licks his lips, casting his gaze back to his lap. “I did, but…that…that wasn’t me.” Spencer doesn’t respond. “I think you've known for a while that I’m not entirely stable. You're not stupid, Spence.”

“Equals...” Spencer muses “You’re not tempted to kill me anymore?”

“There’s a reason other vampires stay away from me, Spence. They know who I am, where I once belonged, and I have a…reputation. They can smell him on me, Spencer, and he’ll never go away. I carry that memory of the Dandies with me, wherever I go. The reason they haven’t gone after you is because they smell me on you. They knew you were mine, but now that you’re…one of us, you aren’t under my protection anymore. You can go where you please, and I doubt it will make any difference to William. This was my mistake for letting him out and letting my own greed get the better of me.” Brendon struggles to stand, hoisting himself gingerly ofrom the floor to face Spencer. Spencer sits up as he braces his hands against Brendon’s arms, steadying him. “I’ve never sired before, Spence, but I know there are certain obligations for me to teach you to survive like this. I only ask that before you leave, you learn from me, just this once. Then, after… you can go.”

Brendon stares at his blood smeared over Spencer’s neck. He licks his thumb and goes to wipe the excess away, but then the sudden physical contact is ignited, firing bright sparks down Brendon’s spine. He can’t help it, the way he can feel everyone, but Spencer flinches and shivers, shooting Brendon a bewildered look before catching Brendon’s wrist, keeping his thumb to his throat.

“Is that what it feels like?” Spencer stammers, let it slowly roll out as he shakes.

Brendon doesn’t know what to make of it. Others are not attuned to him to feel anything, their psyches too weak to pick up the subtle nuances of Brendon’s emotions that he gives off and feeds from. He searches Spencer’s face as he leans into his hand, wanting more of that pulsating contact. Brendon feels whole again, more than he’s ever felt in the three years he’s been alone.

“I’m not leaving.” Spencer blurts out. “I’m not leaving you alone like this. You don’t deserve that, Brendon.”

He watches Spencer intently, biting his lip, and the slow, cautious grin on Spencer’s face is enough to show his sincerity. Brendon matches it, still apprehensive that one move could potentially fuck everything up.

“I…” Brendon drops his hand and lifts his right leg, stretching it out behind him. “I-I…I need to feed.” Spencer’s face falls, crossing his arms over his chest and looks at Brendon from beneath his bangs. Brendon doesn’t need him anymore for that. He’ll go off on his own now, leave Spencer behind. “You’re coming with me this time. I need to show you how to do it properly.”

Spencer supports Brendon with an arm around his shoulder, leading him through the doorway and stroking Brendon’s hand gratefully.

* * *

 

They part for him, clearing a path, but his focus is on Spencer, Spencer and feeding. Eyes follow them around corners, pressed against the walls, half scared and out of involuntary submission. There’s hissing as they walk. The hairs on Spencer’s neck barb at the sound. Brendon flashes a smile, teeth and all, moving his hand so stealthily into Spencer’s and lacing their fingers together that Spencer’s at a loss for words. Their steps are swift and they barely notice, approaching the ropes of the club.

The moment the bouncer looks at Brendon, Spencer knows they’re clear. They slide easily through the door and Brendon is overwhelmed. He breathes in a sigh, eyes rolling back, and for a second he falls into Spencer, knees buckling under the sheer intensity of scents around them, but before Spencer can blink or even catch him, Brendon is pulling himself together. Smoothing his hair and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. There are distinct scars from teeth, dotting his skin under the strobes.

The deep bass of the music surrounds them, beating through their limbs, and the crowd dances and jumps to that pulse, soaked in colors of the lights and sweating like the prey they are. Brendon makes a move forward into the crowd, and Spencer, just for a moment of panic, snatches his wrist with a frightened grip. Brendon turns slowly in the movement of the bodies around them, and for a minute, Spencer thinks of how beautiful he is in the strobes. He flashes Spencer a loving grin and takes his face in his hands, bringing him to his level. His hold on Spencer is gentle, as always, and his hands are the perfect support.

Brendon speaks, mouth moving quickly and articulately, just enough for Spencer to hear over the pulsing music. “Go and feed. I’ll do the same, and if you get lost, feel me, alright? You will always be able to find me.”

Spencer nods, because the words reflect in Brendon’s milky eyes and they hold so much honesty and warmth that it’s all Spencer can do. Brendon loses focus on him for a moment, head lulling to the side at the pulse of the bodies around them. “I’ll find you before you find me. Go on. Go, feed.”,Brendon says, tightening his grip on Spencer until their eyes lock again.

He's gone before Spencer can even reply, disappearing into the mass, moving in time like water through rocks, losing himself to the rhythm until he’s just another head in the crowd. He’s right. Spencer will always know where he is, but he feels so empty, like the cold space of the bed where your lover should be.

Spencer finds a tripped up girl three minutes into wandering up to the second level of the club. He hesitates, mind going elsewhere before taking the bite and pressing her into the cushions of the back booth, shot glasses and empty bottles littering the table. She moans and goes limp, and Spencer can faintly feel the high of whatever she’s on, but that dies quickly. They sink into the seats, lowering her down to lie on the fabric. He’s being savage, pulling on her hair and scraping his fingernails down her back. He wants to ignore the needy pull, thinks he should be stronger than the intense want he has for Brendon, so much it makes him keen. He lets her take her last breaths after he pulls away, not even bothering to look at her. He brushes the hair from his eyes and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, tasting the last remnants of her on his tongue.

Spencer gets a few hungry, lingering stares from the women lining the spiral stairwell as he passes. They're not worth his time, as much as he would love to ravage them if he were that desperate. No, it’s not them. They’re nothing compared to what he wants.

The beat in his ribcage is drowned out by the one in his veins that tells him where to go, that you’ll find what you’re looking for. Spencer’s eyes scan the mass of moving bodies, letting his instincts guide where his eyes wander and land on them against the far wall by the employee lounge. Brendon has him pressed against the wall, hand under his shirt, kissing hungrily. Spencer can hear the growls and purrs coming from Brendon’s throat, the moans that escape from the boy’s lips. Brendon is all over him. A fire burns hot in Spencer’s chest, this possessiveness that is radiating and encroaching into his vision. He doesn’t want to watch, wants to think that’s where he should be and that there is no resistance. Brendon wouldn’t, couldn’t hurt him even if he tried. Brendon moves lower to mouth at his neck. This kid thinks this is all it will become tonight, a one night stand, an STD test later, and then move on to the next willing fuck. Brendon’s mouth is sly and slick, moving over his jaw to settle at the base, his favorite place to bite. Spencer doesn’t need to be told when it happens. When Brendon starts to swallow, sealing his lips to the skin, the boy goes limp in his arms with a moan that is drowned out by the next song on the playlist. He’s taller than Brendon, looks too pretty to be seen with the likes of him, but that’s just Brendon’s charm. He’ll flash an innocent smile one minute, and then make you disappear into a corner with him the next, and he’ll be all over you until he can’t stop, and he’s no longer what you thought he was. Brendon’s moving with each swallow, pushing the body into the wall, rolling his hips just to get closer and get as much as possible out of this limp sack he has in his arms. There's no remorse when he drops the body, forcing himself to tear away. He’s panting, low and labored, pressing his face into his arms against the wall.

Spencer has never really watched Brendon feed until now. It’s always been this discrete thing between them, the way Spencer’s mother would tell him to not chew his food with his mouth open. It’s another side he’s never seen before of his maker, one of the many yet to be shown to him as their companionship continues. Brendon’s coming down from his high. He turns his face toward Spencer and opens his eyes. They’re the deep brown Spencer remembers and he wonders if this is the way it has always been when Brendon feeds. He looks innocent and bashful, but licks the excess from his mouth without shame, staggering forward in the lingering haze.

Shadows dance on his face from the club lights, tipping his head back in ecstasy. Spencer is there to cradle Brendon when standing becomes too much, the sensations of feeding and the pulse of the beat too overwhelming to bear on his own, and Brendon clings to him like a lifeline. There’s a grin spreading in his face, but he doesn’t look Spencer in the eye. He stares at the pattern of his beard, admiring it.

“The way I used to be,” Brendon says, soft and deep. “I didn’t like to kill. I would avoid it at all costs and I valued human life once like I valued yours.” He falls into Spencer, gripping his shoulders. “It feels so far away now.”

“Was it like this with Pete?”

Brendon freezes, looking up at Spencer incredulously, almost ripping himself away to escape, but Spencer’s grip is earnest and pliant, patient with how he asked the question. Brendon looks as if he might break down in tears. “H-how do you know that name?”

Spencer drags his eyes to the floor and lets his grip on Brendon slip, letting his arms fall to his sides, swallowing the lump in his throat. He scuffs his shoe against the concrete floor. “I’ve…when you’re not around, I’m…taunted. The others, they mention a Peter more than anything else. I don’t understand.”

“Ignore it.” Brendon chokes painfully. “It’s nonsense.” He rubs his forearms gently, letting his fingers trail over the scars.

The thought in the back of Spencer’s mind dwells for only a second before Brendon’s turning away and walking to the back door. His shoulders are hunched and he doesn’t look back, but his hand trails behind him, open and inviting. Spencer takes it gratefully.

They’re unphased by the bitter cold, fog settling around them. It brushes around Brendon’s shoulders and he stops at the railing of the loading ramp. His hair clings to his forehead with the moisture in the air. He doesn’t look at Spencer, instead, he’s gazing at his hands, balling them into fists. Spencer is waiting, leaning against the door, fingers playing with the handle. The fog is thicker now, and though Brendon is just feet away from him, Spencer can only make out a detailed silhouette in the haze.

“Pete doesn't matter anymore. He's gone and...h-he doesn't concern you. You’re more real to me than anything anymore, Spencer.” Brendon’s words catch in his throat and he chokes on them.

Early in the morning, Brendon is shaking beneath the sheets as Spencer climbs in, taking an hour after helping him into some clean pajamas to shower off the stale scent of cigarettes and ecstasy. Brendon trembles, and it isn’t until Spencer has the sheets over their heads and adjusts his pillow between his knees does he embrace Brendon, pulling him close to his chest. Brendon’s spasms cease almost immediately and he sighs into Spencer’s touch. He lets his fingers brush over every little scar littering Brendon’s arms and shoulders, nuzzling the large splash of disfigured skin on Brendon’s spine. Brendon shudders at this, and when Spencer cradles his arms around Brendon’s torso, he takes Spencer’s hands and presses feather-light, lingering kisses to his palms.

“You’re everything to me, Spence. “ Brendon purrs sleepily. “More than you can ever begin to imagine.” _________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

They didn’t exactly agree to do this. It’s the last thing Brendon wants. To him, Spencer is dancing on the last thread of his sanity. He doesn’t know how thin that line is between Brendon’s two personalities, how easy it is to slip into, and how hard it is to pull himself back out. For Spencer, sure, it’s easy. The blackouts are rare, diluted through a kind of second-hand exposure to where he has a good grip of control over that seductive pull of consciousness, but Brendon doesn’t. The on/off switch is disappearing.

Spencer finds him on the windowsill, tracing his fingers over the glass. He wanted to sleep in more, keeping Spencer close and safe. He’s wrapped in the suite robe, half of the back hanging off of one shoulder. He tries to breathe on the surface, but there is no heat to make shapes on. The hand in his lap moves absently from the rest of him, delicately dancing on the plush fabric of the robe. As he closes the space between them, Brendon goes lax, slumping against the glass, seventeen floors above the streets. Spencer’s fingers slide over the ridge of Brendon’s uncovered shoulder, grazing over every hill and valley of scars, barely there impressions.

“You can’t make me forget. I hate you for it.” Brendon mumbles under Spencer’s hands. His head falls limp at his ministrations.

“It’s just a half-hour. Nothing more.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one that will be under a microscope.” Spencer noses at the nape of Brendon's neck. “Stop.” he growls. Spencer goes to take him into his arms again but Brendon will have none of it. “No! W-what…what if I--“ He pauses, palming his temple. For a moment, he looks at Spencer with such hostility and hate that Spencer steps back, but then it’s gone, and Brendon gathers himself. “What if I slip? I can’t stop myself when I’m like that, Spencer. You know that.”

Spencer’s there before Brendon can even turn away and close himself up again, enveloping him with his arms and burying his face into Brendon’s neck, breathing in his scent. It’s so familiar that his grip tightens. “No, B, never. I’ll be right on the other side of the wall, and if—if she discovers anything or if it all goes to shit…we’ll make her forget. Okay?” He cradles Brendons cheeks in his hands, searching his face. Brendon’s eyes are tired. He knows Brendon hasn’t fed for two days. He’s due. But he has self-control. After, Spencer promises, connecting their foreheads until their noses brush.

_After._

“Now go in there. I’ve laid some stuff out for you. Nothing too fancy.” He says, and pushes Brendon toward the double doors. Brendon glances back again and tugs the robe up his shoulders.

“I didn’t make you to torment me like this, Spencer. You’re fucked in the head if you think so."

Spencer watches him go. Brendon stops in the doorway and leans against the wood, hunched over himself for a moment before waving to Spencer dismissively, disappearing into the bedroom and closing the doors behind him.

-

Spencer can smell her at the door; she’s trying to cover up the chicken Marsala she ate earlier with two sticks of gum. Spencer is there as her footsteps close in on the door. Her heartbeat is quite loud. She must be intimidated, Spencer thinks. The setting doesn’t help much, but this is the only place where Brendon won’t be distracted and go berserk with all of the unnecessary presences in a single room. The penthouse suite doesn't exactly scream "humble."

Her knuckles meet the wood surface three times, echoing off the marble walls. She’s a professional. Out of the corner of Spencer’s eye, Brendon is peeking shyly from the crack of the half-open doors to the master bedroom. He’s paler now, glowing against the black grain of the wood. He bites his lip, digging his fingernails into the surface before turning away and disappearing from view.

Spencer turns the lock and handle, greeting her when the door reveals her in a black skirt and sweater. The bangs of her red hair are pulled back by pins; lips full like Brendon’s that match the color of her shoes. She stares at Spencer, bewildered. “Mr. Smith?” she asks, searching his face. Spencer tries to smile, be cordial without giving too much away.

“Yes, Dr. Randall. We spoke on the phone. Please come in.” Spencer ushers her into the front hallway, closing the door quietly behind her and turning the deadbolt before she even notices and turns around. She takes in the penthouse den in awe, not catching that Spencer has moved quietly to her side. “Would you like anything to drink?” She yelps and jumps back, covering her mouth with her hand. She continues to take Spencer in. He’s tried to dress casually, as not to add any more attention to themselves like they do every other night. But it’s not the navy button-up that she’s staring at.

She doesn’t break eye contact, but slowly bites her lip. “Mr. Smith, c-can you see me at all?” Spencer smirks, her heart flutters.

“I can. This is just-“

 

“It’s just this condition I was born with.” Not really a lie. It crept on Spencer slowly. It was only a matter of time, inheriting many things from Brendon, no less. “I can see you perfectly. Did you want anything to drink before?”

She blinks and regains her composure. “N-no,” she stammers. “Actually, water would be nice. Mr. Urie may get thirsty during the session.”

Spencer grins to himself and holds back a laugh as he retrieves a bottle of VOSS from the unused kitchenette. “Brendon can do without it for now. I promised him dinner afterwards and he’s had his fill for now.” She purses her lips at this but takes the bottle nonetheless.

“Certainly. As you know, Mr. Smith, payment is due immediately after the evaluation.” Spencer nods in agreement. “Now,” she grips her leather satchel, standing straighter. “You spoke of his bottled aggression, yes?”

“Something along those lines. Parts of him do not seem to want to be…cooperative. I just need to see if someone other than me can coax it out of him.”

“D-do…do you mean…Dissociative Identity Disorder?”

“Perhaps. It shouldn’t be that bad at this point. He doesn’t talk much, but if you push him hard enough, he might begin to open up.” Spencer put his hands in his pockets. “Would you like to meet him now?”

She nods, tucking the water bottle into her bag. Spencer leads her through the den toward the double doors. He doesn’t make a sound on the wood floors, trying to maintain a slow enough pace that she can keep up with while her heels clack obnoxiously against it. They reach the door, Spencer pulling it open to let her inside. Brendon is on the far sofa, having already pulled out a chair for her across from him from the desk. His hand is buried in his hair as he watches his toes dig into the shag rug. She doesn’t seem impressed by his jeans and gray sweatshirt, Brendon’s favorite. His fingers dance on his thigh absently.

“Brendon.” He flinches at Spencer’s voice and stands a little too quickly for the psychiatrist’s human eyes, wiping his hands on his jeans habitually and biting his lip, trying to smile. He’s tense as he looks at her, trying to hide the pained expression that is making itself known. “Dr. Randall.” He says quietly. She holds out her hand to shake but he only stares at it uncertainly. She retracts it sensing that he’s actually afraid of it. Her own nervousness is driving him insane. She’s in awe of him, all of him, taking him in. He takes a step back under her gaze and glances at Spencer, needy.

“Your eyes.” she mumbles. Brendon glances back at her and her breath hitches. She takes in the soft, cloudy blue of his pupils and irises. “They’re beautiful.” She steps forward in a daze. Brendon stumbles back and fumbles for a hold on the arm of the couch. But then she’s reaching her hand out for him. Spencer smells it too. The aroma hits Brendon square in the chest and he keens. The temptation of her is almost too much as she still crowds his space looking at him. But Brendon is better than that. He slips from between her and the couch before she can get too close, and he bolts for Spencer.

“I’ll just be a moment.” Brendon says, a quiver in his voice as he swallows forcibly. Spencer backs out of the room with Brendon in tow, leaving Dr. Randall to her thoughts as she blinks rapidly, coming out of her daze.

The moment the door closes, Brendon is in Spencer’s arms, face buried in his chest and taking in his scent like Brendon’s last breaths of air. He’s shaking, fisting Spencer’s shirt in handfuls. Spencer’s hands come up to rake through Brendon’s hair and massage at the base of his skull and his tension dissolves.

“Spence, don’t make me do this. _Please_. I’m slipping so fast when she’s around, and she’ll tell me…she’ll tell me I’m crazy. She’s going to tell people about us.” Brendon is talking so fast that he trips over his words.

Spencer calmly takes Brendon’s face in his hands, brushing the bangs from his forehead. His eyes dart to the angry scar on his collarbone, his first and most prominent. He touches it, but this time, Brendon is too worked up to even react. “She won’t. She won’t make it out of the hallway before she tells a soul about us.” He presses a gentle kiss to Brendon’s forehead, lingering for however long Brendon needs. “If you can’t focus, just think of me. Only me. I'll just be on the other side of that door. Look at me.” Brendon stares at his scarred neck possessively. “Bren, look at me. She won’t hurt you. He won’t hurt you.”

Brendon moves to mouth at Spencer’s scar, and he makes this pathetic whimper from the back of his throat. That’s the one thing Spencer hates most; when Brendon cries, they’re only dry sobs. He can’t do much else when he’s like this, and let’s Brendon lave at his jaw.

“Spence,” he says. “You told her to push me. Why? Why would you do that?”

Spencer doesn’t move at all, keeping his hands flat on Brendon’s back and neck. “We just want to see how far you can go. It’s only a test.”

At this, Brendon pushes himself away, straightening his shirt and smoothing his hair. He wipes at invisible tears. “Of course it is.” When Brendon looks up, Spencer freezes. Pools of brown stare back at him with so much betrayal that he’s taken aback. “I’m going to fight, Spencer. I don’t care how much you want to see me lose it. I will fight. You think he controls me? You’re dead wrong.” Brendon pauses for a moment, and it finally dawns on him why his condition is so singular, why he is so fragile. His brown eyes meet Spencer’s moonstone ones. “He—he protects me.”

Spencer has never seen Brendon this…human. Brendon glares at him defiantly, but he looks so small now, like Spencer can delete his existence at any second. For a moment, he forgets who is naturally the more dominant, and makes a motion of protest, but Brendon hisses so viciously that he takes a weary step back. 

"Brendon, I didn’t mean—“

“No!!” Brendon snarls. Something flashes in his eyes for a brief second, and in that moment, Spencer’s mind goes entirely blank. “You may mean well, have good intentions and all of that nonsense, but what you’re doing is cruel. “ He points an accusing finger at Spencer and begins to back up toward the double doors. Spencer can’t move, as much as he wants to console Brendon, hug him, kiss him, shelter him, he cannot move under Brendon’s influence. The hurt in Brendon’s eyes is too much. He stops at the door and glares at Spencer. “I can’t make a scene, and I won’t for her own sanity.” He bites hard into his hand to bring himself back to reality. He winces at the pain, then tongues the wound until only an angry bruise is left. “I didn’t make you to put me through this kind of suffering.”

Brendon returns to the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him. Dr. Randall looks up expectantly and watches as he moves back to the sofa with a kind of confidence she didn’t catch before. His shoulders are drawn back, determination in his step. Smoothing the bangs against his forehead, he takes in her scent again, and it’s muted from before now that she’s settled down. She begins to write notes, and Brendon fights the urge to tell her to stop. One thing that is obvious is with everything that goes on inside of his head, he’ll protect it like an animal nursing a wound. In a way, he is with most things.

“Brendon, how long have you been having these episodes?” Spencer gave her explicit instructions on the phone to get straight to the point, that the more you vaguely beat around the bush, the more Brendon will close up behinds his walls. Brendon would agree with him if he really knew what the circumstances were. He was an unstable vampire, not stupid.

Brendon’s brows pinch and he bites his lip, pulling the veil protectively around him like a security blanket. “What do you mean _episodes_?” Dr. Randall bites the end of her pen, uncrossing her legs.

“Yes. These lapses I’ve been described to are simply delusions of grandeur that you seem to cling to in times of stress.”

“These are not delusions of grandeur, Ms. Randall. He is as real as you are and those notes you hold onto, as real as I am, though I’m sure you have never believed something like me was ever real in the first place.”

Brendon pauses, clearing his throat when the malicious voice began to slither beneath his own.

“Something like you… Please, elaborate, Brendon.” He bites into his palm again, just barely, letting it trickle before he laves at the wound again.

“In due time, Ms. Randall.” Dr. Randall pauses, staring at Brendon curiously. She could’ve sworn she heard another voice in the room. Brendon busies at the sleeves of his gray sweatshirt, looking at anything but her. Brendon’s other hand comes up to his hair and tangles his fingers in the strands. He counts slowly under his breath, too low for her to hear as his vision blurs in and out. She purses her lips and looks back at her notes; _behavioral observations, speech inflections, word choice_ , and Spencer’s careful direction as what to say, what will trigger certain responses, almost like cheating. She’s staring at an emotional cheat sheet, tailored specifically to Brendon.

“Alright. Tell me about Peter.”

\--

Spencer has been pacing for the last hour outside of the double doors. He second-guesses himself. Brendon’s words struck so deep, that this must be a cruel game to him. He can’t feel him anymore. That is what worries him the most. That pulse at the base of his skull doesn’t have a pull anymore. It’s gone, has been for about twenty minutes. He can’t last that long without Brendon. Spencer clutches the robe in his fists again, bringing it to his nose as he inhales, deep and needy, eyes rolling back at Brendon’s scent still clinging to the plush fabric. Traces of him still linger. He needs Brendon. He needs to feel him again, touch him, hear him, smell him, anything.

It’s been quiet since Spencer began to lose himself in his thoughts, trying to reach out for Brendon and not getting that pulsating warmth in return. He doesn’t hear how the heartbeat droning has picked up, how it should be pounding obnoxiously in his ears now. He shouldn’t have done this. Brendon doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve to be put under a microscope like this. He’s fragile, the voice says.

_You’re breaking him, Spencer. He needs you and you expose him like this. He loves you, and this is what you subject him to,_ the voice says.

“I know! I know what I’ve done!” Spencer pleads softly, to an empty loft. “I’m sorry. I just want him back.”

_You’re hurting him, Spencer. He feels abandoned. You’ve left him there alone._

“I’m sorry! I know, I know, I know.” He clutches the robe to where the fibers begin to dissolve under the pressure of his grip.

He looks toward the ceiling and he’s falling falling falling, into a cold, violent place.

\--

Spencer comes to and there’s blood on his hands.

Blood, blood everywhere, all over the wood floor, all over his hands, his chin. Not his, no, this can’t be his.

His vision swims, circling, blurring out until everything comes back into focus. He’s on the floor. The blood drips down his wrists to his hands and his palms keep slipping against the floor with the warm, sticky liquid. His head hurts, feels like it’s floating on his shoulders. Chairs are knocked over. From what he can infer, the sitting room is destroyed.

What the fuck happened?

He looks to his right, in the corner of the room where blood is smeared in fingerprints near the crown molding on the floor is Brendon, or what looks like Brendon. He’s hunched over something. Spencer pushes himself across the floor. Brendon doesn’t notice him at all. His sleeves are torn and bloodied, and as Spencer crawls closer, Dr. Randall is lying limp and pale, Brendon’s mouth attached to her throat and drinking hungrily, animalistic sounds coming from him. He has one hand on her forehead, the other gripping her shoulder over her torn sweater, fingernails digging into her skin. Brendon’s hair sticks up where it’s been savagely pulled in a struggle. Spencer feels his scalp and can touch the tufts that stick out from the general flow of other strands.

She put up a fight. She didn’t stand a chance.

“Bren.” Spencer can taste her blood on his tongue. He’s had his share of her already. “Brendon.” He reaches a tentative hand toward his maker, and Brendon flinches away from the body, his mouth and throat smeared with the stuff, and he snarls. Spencer retracts his hand, putting it up in surrender. “Brendon. It’s me, Spencer.”

Something clicks in Brendon, and his expression softens. Spencer crawls closer, but not before Brendon looks at the body at his feet. His eyes grow wide, takes in the scene, looking at his hands, the floor, and her lifeless body, then he breaks. Brendon begins screaming hysterically, kicking away from the body and into the corner. His hands stay curled in the air on either side of his head like weapons in surrender. His sobs are coming out choked now and Spencer presses himself to his side, wrapping his arms around Brendon’s shoulders protectively as he still screams uncontrollably. The pulsing presence is back, clinging to Spencer desperately and enveloping him, nearly suffocating his consciousness in its intensity.

“What did we do?!” Brendon moans. His legs lie limp in front of them, his bare feet tired of trying to avoid the small pool of blood growing closer to them from her wounds, _eighteen_ , Spencer counted, twelve of them his own marks. Spencer places soft kisses into Brendon’s hair, rocking him slowly, stroking his temples, and Brendon clings to him. He breaths him in, taking in every bit of him to try and keep himself calm. Brendon is fragile, Spencer now fully understands. He’s the most indestructible thing, yet he’s the most breakable. Brendon needs him more than anything in this world, more than sleep, more than blood. His maker needs him, no matter how much Brendon tries to dismiss that fact to make Spencer an equal. 

* * *

 

The growl in Spencer's throat vibrates viciously as the woman walks away, a dainty flair in her step. She'd touched Brendon, hung on his shoulders and whispered drunkenly into his ear. Brendon obviously played along. He didn't want to attract more attention than he was being given. He stood out though, even tucked into a corner of the club, so starkly that the drugged and over-confident women flung themselves at him. He played the part well, smiling, laughing, buying her a drink, just for her to leave him alone. He would put distance between them, sinking into the chair, but she would put herself even further into his space. He continued to look around, searching in vain.  
  
Spencer had noticed it too. William had not shown himself for weeks, even the slightest bit of agitation was all Brendon. Spencer had relished this. He was still naive and innocent, taking everything too seriously as he learned from Spencer, but at this moment, Brendon didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to act, to tell these women _no,_ he did not want their company. He did not know how to feel.  
  
Spencer watched from the stairwell, keeping still even as others passed him with lustful stares. His gaze was cold and malicious. Even if Brendon was searching for him, his anger kept him planted to the spot, jealousy coursing through him, and he could only focus on how their hands ran over his visible scars, how their lips grazed the shell of his ear.  
  
Brendon slides up off of the seat, flattening the wrinkles out of his slacks and carding his fingers through his hair. Spencer's stealth is such that not even Brendon can match it. He doesn't make a sound, feels nothing, becoming cold as stone as his eyes follow Brendon down the stairs. The music is too loud, the bodies too close as Brendon sifts through them, and the pained expression is clear on his face, twisted in discomfort. They came here to feed, Spencer knows.  
  
Brendon disappears through the club entrance, sliding past the bouncer with a graceful nod and smirk. Spencer, still behind, rushing through the crowd, trying to single out Brendon's scent lingering among the others. A small whine rattles in his throat for a moment as his anger subsides and panic takes over, tunnel vision consuming him as he pushes shamelessly through the bodies. His nose suddenly catches it, and relief washes over him. It snakes through the stock room behind the bar, a flowing ribbon of pheromones tailored to Spencer.  
  
He picks up his pace, striding more forcefully across the crowded bar queue, spotting the steel loading door down a corridor. He shakes off the bartender's hold on his shoulder like a blanket, shoving him into the wall and continues. Spencer's heart aches, longing for that close proximity. He reaches the door, pushing, but it doesn't budge. He hisses at it, losing all patience. His fingers wrap around the lock joint, crushing it like paper beneath his fingers and ripping it from the surface. He doesn't care who notices at this point, not like they can do anything to stop him. He shoves at the door again. It doesn't move. With a snarl, anger clouding his vision again, he gives into it and kicks, sending the slab of metal into the dock railing outside. The spring air rushes in, hitting him in the face.  
  
Spencer stalks out, eyes searching frantically. There are whispers, malicious and low, too low for human ears. Skin is being torn. He can hear it ripping, and the sickening scream follows, guttural and desperate. Spencer bolts down the ramp, passing several alleyways until movement catches his eye, and a figure, one all too familiar becomes the focus of his attention.  
  
Brendon is surrounded, nine goths circling him ravenously. His shirt is in torn pieces on the ground, soaked with black water from the rooftops. There are new scars dotting his chest; teeth, Spencer infers, how their half-moon shapes curve jaggedly out of the smooth skin. Brendon's hair is sticking out in several directions and there is dried blood on his eyebrow from a healed gash. He bares his teeth at an approaching goth. His palms are open though. It's defensive, but he doesn't notice that they're slowly backing him into the wall.

Spencer remembers how Brendon described the different cliques that dwell in Chicago, how he told of his encounters with them in the earlier days after he was turned. The goths, he explained, took your power from you slowly, leaving you no other alternatives, and acting like one body, like a pack. Now Brendon was alone, but he was fierce. Four piles of ash and clothing lie abandoned at the mouth of the alley. Brendon would fight until the end.  
  
"I've left you alone! What could you possibly want from me?" he asks, a slight quiver in his voice. The encroaching group remains silent. They inch closer, and one of them stepped forward from the wall of bodies, nails drawn and teeth bared, but that was when Brendon's entire focus turned to him, stopping the vampire in his tracks. "Don't." he says firmly, eyes flickering for a split second, losing his focus compelling a single vampire out of the group. They swarm, and Brendon is too slow. He hasn't fed, he's alone, he's incomplete, and he's surrounded. He's grabbed at every pliable point making escape nearly impossible. One, thick, black hair in her face, has a white arm around Brendon's throat, locking him in a vice.  
  
Spencer surges forward, growling, and he catches Brendon's attention. He's going to save him, get him out of here, and there's this faint grin spreading on his face, relief painted in every crease and pore, until another from the pack slithers behind him, thrusting an arm forward. Brendon freezes, letting out a strangled cry, sounding so human and broken as the stake protrudes from his chest. Blood pours from the wound, and the stake's tip is positioned dead-center to the scar on his sternum, the exact spot between his shoulder blades, the largest scar on his body.  
  
"Pete sends his regards." the girl says into Brendon's ear. His face is blank with pain, jaw loose, eyes glazed. She relinquishes her old on him, and he crumples to the asphalt. When he hits the ground, the stake doesn't move, and his chest bows from the angle. He's now a victim, motionless and bleeding out on the ground, helpless. Brendon's legs lie limp and bent, the laces of his shoes untied and soaked from the water.  
  
The downpour begins with the wind from the north, and it sets Spencer off, finally relenting to his anger when he processes his makerloverfriend's body, lifeless on the ground. There is no control where his clawed hands go, who he rips, slices, and tears. Spencer leaps off of the surrounding walls. He avoids all of their attacks with such agility, running on pure instinct.

Beckett has taken over, and he knows what it feels like to relinquish control, how addicting it is, but it wasn't involuntary, as Brendon's condition so often does. It was asking Spencer, begging him to let go, this was out of his hands. Beckett asked, and Spencer willingly agreed. The work was being done for him. One by one, they fell, trying numerous times to corner him, like they did Brendon. The rain fell harder now, blurring his vision and their scents.  
  
Spencer dodged a near-fatal swipe, catching the arm of the culprit and ripping it off, taking the clavicle with it, and he burst into ashes in the pummeling rain. There were four left, blocking the exit of the alley. Adrenaline coursed through Spencer's veins and his fingers twitched. He snarled, loud and rabid, a warning, daring them to come any closer, Through his dripping bangs, he could see them slowly backing off, into the white sheet, and disappearing from view.  
  
The thing about giving up control to Beckett was how reluctantly this entity, this state of mind, would give it back. Spencer's fists clenched, and he slowly leaned against the wall as the water poured over him. His vision swam, coming in and out of focus until he could take a shaky breath, letting it out slowly. Pushing himself up again, he turns to look around, and he can make out the outline of the body in the whitewash of the downpour. Water is cascading from the pipes and walls, drenching Brendon and washing the trickles of blood from his wound in rivers down his ribs.  
  
Spencer crouches beside him. He doesn't know what to do. His hands fist his slacks before even attempting to touch Brendon. His hand makes contact, and there's a soft jolt through his fingers. Brendon's still here. Well, of course; he'd be ash if it had pierced his heart. He stares vacantly at the passing clouds, drenching his face and hair. Spencer tentatively grips beneath his shoulders, hoisting to cradle Brendon's torso into his arms. The tip of the stake (steel, Spencer observes) sticks grotesquely out of Brendon's bare sternum, but Spencer needs to do it. He grips the end of it from Brendon's back, giving a small, cautious tug, and the quiet whine from Brendon's throat is enough to reassure Spencer that this is what must be done, no matter how painful. It slides out with much resistance from Brendon's bones and muscles, but it comes out and clatters to the ground. Blood pours from the wound but begins to close now that the object has been removed. Brendon arches, flinching in Spencer's hold enough to nearly fall out of it, but Spencer is there to catch him.  
  
"It hurts. Fuck..." Brendon coughs feebly. "Just...just as b-bad as the last...the last time."  
  
 _The last time_ , Spencer thinks. The last time, _P_ _eter's regards_. He puts the two together, and everything Brendon has tried to avoid presents itself before Spencer's eyes. Rage flows through him again, but he pushes it down, bottling it for another time. Brendon needs to get out of the rain, get indoors, feed, heal.  
  
He scoops him up gingerly, and Brendon looks so small in his arms, cradled against him as he pulls himself up off of the asphalt. Brendon's face leans against Spencer's soaked shoulder, nuzzling his face into the fabric as his arms hang limp by his sides.  
  
Where was Beckett to protect him? Was it a lesson, Brendon's own mind toying with him? Whatever it was, the message was clear. Brendon, as well as Spencer, knew that Pete was near  
  
Spencer strides determinedly through the rain, Brendon curled in his arms, daring anyone to come forward. There will be no restraint when Brendon feeds tonight. Spencer will not dispose of the bodies. They have higher priorities.


End file.
